


Of Insanity and its Wand

by Brandschlag



Series: The Banality of Evil [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternative Master of Death Concept, Angst, Character Death, Elder Wand (Harry Potter), Final Battle, Gen, Master of Death Harry Potter, Mentor Dumbledore, No Romance, No Slash, No Smut, Other, POV Third Person, Previous Masters of the Elder Wand
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-08
Updated: 2019-01-08
Packaged: 2019-10-06 15:28:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17347730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brandschlag/pseuds/Brandschlag
Summary: He had won, - or so he thought as the Elder Wand flew from Voldemort's hand. But it was far from over. The Elder Wand had a life on its own and Harry was ill prepared to face it.





	Of Insanity and its Wand

**Author's Note:**

> Greetings.
> 
> \- This One-Shot will be the basis on which I will build a series of fanfictions.  
> \- Please do not upload this fanfiction anywhere else without my explicit permission.  
> \- If you've enjoyed this fanfiction, do please leave me some feedback.

"Avada Kedavra!" "Expelliarmus!" The bang was like a cannon blast, and the gilden flames that erupted between them, at the dead center of the circle they had been treading, marked the point where the spells collided.

Harry saw Voldemort's green jet meet his own spell, saw the Elder Wand fly high, dark against the sunrise, spinning across the enchanted ceiling like the head of Nagini, spinning through the air toward the master it would not kill, who had come to take full possession of it at last. And Harry, with the unerring skill of the Seeker, caught the wand in his free hand as Voldemort fell backward, arms splayed, the slit pupils of the scarlet eyes rolling upward.

Tom Riddle hit the floor with a mundane finality, his body feeble and shrunken, the white hands empty, the snakelike face vacant and unknowing. Voldemort was dead, killed by his own rebounding curse, and Harry?

Harry stood still, holding onto the Elder Wand, eyes distant and looking far and wide, staring beyond the people that rose to cheer and cry, blood and tears streaming. His hand was clasped tight around the gnarly wood in his hands, warm to the touch and full of confidence.

Harry blinked at the darkness rising from the Forbidden Forest, creeping like stalking predators towards him. His feet were stuck, he could neither move nor yell. His arms and hands uselessly hanging down, and then when he closed his eyes, thinking that this was it,- death coming to claim him at last where it had failed before, nothing happened. No climactic finale, no thunder clapping behind a mountain range in the distance, no red and snake eyed foul creature. Just nothing - darkness. All encompassing and everywhere surrounding him.

Harry craned his neck left and right hoping to see some of the people that had been cheering and crying just now, relieved and in disbelief of the sudden end of the war they had fought despite their youth. But there was nobody around. A few seconds of thinking, and then he opened his mouth, but no voice came forth. He wanted to curse, but not without voice.

After a few minutes that had felt like hours, or maybe it had been hours feeling like minutes, Harry couldn't rightly say, he noticed something that he had not seen taken note of before. The darkness was not all that dark. In truth, it was shades of black that, while still very dark, allowed Harry to make out contours and forms. Unwilling to wait any longer, and lacking any other option, Harry began to walk. Slowly and carefully, step after step as not to stumble over the small surface irregularities he could vaguely see in the dark.

He gripped the Elder Wand tight and then stumbled. How could he have forgotten the wand?

Swinging it through the proper movements, Harry thought of the incantation, Lumos, and with relief saw the tip of the Wand glow softly in a pale yellow light, a hand's breadth away from his face.

It wasn't much but it would do.

The light was weak, guttering as if a gale of wind was hammering against it. But the charm stood steadfast and almost defiant, allowing its caster to at least see a little bit better in the thing that any and all alive had feared at some point. Harry took a deep breath of the surprisingly warm and fresh smelling air, and then continued onward, almost hunched forward in an attempt to lighten the way with what little his charm provided.

Harry didn't quite understood where he was, or why it was that he could walk for so long without coming across anything that resembled life. But he knew one thing with a grim certainty that he hadn't felt since learning that he was a Horcrux. He knew that he'd won and Voldemort was dead. For good this time around. It was rather hard celebrating his victory though, having no idea where he was, and without being able to see farther than a hand's breadth if he held the wand close enough to the ground. At least his aching body was holding up, he thought.

Harry licked his busted lip, ignoring the familiar metallic and tangy taste on his tongue, as he swallowed hard. Hermione and Ron would be alright, wouldn't they? He'd won, - whatever forces Voldemort had left should have surrendered, shouldn't they? Yeah, there was no reason to worry. He had won.

"Oi! Scarhead!" Harry knew that voice. He'd recognize it everywhere. He spun around. "Is that my wand, Potter?" Malfoy's voice sounded hollow and far away. "What's with you? Cat's got your tongue?" Harry wanted to reply but he couldn't. This darkness, whatever it was, didn't let him.

"Sit down you malapert mooncalf!" said a rather deep but honeyed voice in annoyed tones, "Can't you see he's clearly still stuck? Sit down! If the fire goes out because of you -"

Harry blinked slowly, head turning, wand in hand, trying to find where the voices had come from.

"Quite right, Gellert," said another, older and gentler voice. Harry knew that voice too. It belonged to Dumbledore. He opened his mouth, but no tone came forth yet again when he attempted to speak. Wait. Gellert? Gellert Grindelwald? "He's clearly still stuck. As you too have been, if I may remind you, Mr. Malfoy." Someone laughed up.

"Aye, he's been flailin' an' wailin' like a wee lass!" The voices fell silent again.

Harry shook his head, or at least he hoped so, because he could barely say if he was walking forward or backwards, surrounded by darkness as he was. Someone spoke up in a language Harry couldn't understand.

"Fabulous idea," the well-spoken voice that seemed to belong to Grindelwald said.

"Oh, ah yes. Thank you for the suggestion, Mykew," Dumbledore's voice spoke up, his voice reaching Harry from left and right, and even from beneath him. "Sarolf, if you would? I'm afraid none of us can leave." He sounded apologetic as he spoke, almost like when Harry had met him at King's Cross.

"Wouldn't want the fire to go out," a bitter voice added, earning a rumble of agreement, before it was quiet again. Shuffling steps came closer before they stopped abruptly. Harry shuddered. The temperature had dropped rapidly. His head turned from left to right, wand ready to defend himself if need be.

"No need to be afraid, Harry," Dumbledore said gently, his old voice still distant but less hollow than before, "Relax, it'll be over soon." And suddenly he was pushed forward by strong hands, toppling over while attempting to catch himself, the Elder Wand flying from his grip. He groaned inwardly, ignoring the pain that was everywhere in his body.

"Thank you Sarolf." Dumbledore's voice was close now, Harry noted. "Come on, Harry. Up you get. A few steps forward and all will be fine." Thick and strong hands gripped Harry's wrists pulling him upwards into a standing position. He still couldn't see, but the hands continued, taking Harry's right hand, prying open the fist he'd made to lessen the burning of the scraped palm. The Elder Wand was roughly placed in his hand before the calloused and rough hands left him.

"Close your eyes Potter," Malfoy spoke up warningly, the usual bite he'd put into speaking with Harry missing and Harry, unable to protest, did as he was told and then the massive hands that had pushed him clamped down before his eyes, pressing to his forehead. They were sweaty and warm and pulling him forward. And when the hands let go, Harry saw light and colours again. It was bright but cold. And while his eyes took their time adjusting to the sudden brightness in front of him, a shadow stalked past him and disappeared behind the raging light.

Sitting around a bonfire the size of Hagrid's old hut were a dozen or more people of any age and gender, some tall, some small. Some sat hunched with their hands extended towards the fire trying to warm themselves, whereas others leaned towards each other, speaking in low and hushed tones, shooting glances towards the newcomers every so often. But Dumbledore and next to him Draco Malfoy, sat the closest to him, their bodies leaning eagerly forward, towards him.

"Welcome, my boy. Welcome.", Dumbledore said, and was joined by a few other voices, even the one of Malfoy sounding quite happy.

"So? My wand, Scarhead?"

Despite himself, Harry laughed out. The surprise over hearing his own voice, rough and breathy, after who-knows how long it had been was quickly forgotten. "What scar?" he asked, left hand moving to touch his head, tracing the young and fresh skin where the scar had been for as long as he could remember. "See Malfoy? Your master's taken care of it." Harry spat the word master but swallowed the anger when he saw the defeated look Draco Malfoy was attempting to make go away. "It's over, anyways. I am dead, aren't I? I mean, how else could I be here with you, Sir."

He'd turned to stare at Dumbledore, as whole and complete, and healthy as the old wizard had been years ago before the troubles of the war had began to press down on him. Dumbledore shook his head, his long beard waving back and forth.

"Dead, my boy? Whatever gave you the idea?" He peered over his spectacles at Harry, before breaking out in a grin, beaming at him. "You have survived, haven't you, Harry? You have faced Tom head-on, brave and strong as you are, and you have survived. This here," Dumbledore said and waved a hand carelessly towards the fire, "it means little if Tom is gone."

"For the Greater Good. Isn't that right, Albus?" The pale man, hair even whiter than the blonde on Malfoy's head said pointedly and stared at Harry. A pair of mismatched eyes and a hard and cold gaze that bordered the feeling just before Snape had used Legilimency on Harry. "He's the boy then? The one you've spent your time setting up? Quite the weak one. Could have done better, Albus."

Grindelwald's turned to stare at Dumbledore, their eyes meeting for a long moment before Dumbledore broke the connection. "Maybe I could have done better. I concur, Gellert." He shrugged inelegantly but smiled at Harry, "and yet young Mister Potter's done what you have failed to do Gellert."

"Because you've set him up to it!" Grindelwald barked annoyed, legs outstretched towards the fire, "anyone could have done it. Nothing grand or spectacular about it."

Dumbledore seemed done with the matter and turned back towards Harry.

"Ah, yes. Harry Potter, meet Gellert Grindelwald. Former Dark Wizard, now just one of many here at the fire. Gellert, meet Harry Potter." Harry ignored the introduction. "Where-," Harry asked, scrambling closer to the fire. He was not feeling cold yet but the darkness was pressing ominously against the light in a way Harry had never seen before. He ignored the looks he received from the people. "Where are we then? If I am not dead, I mean. Last thing I remember before the darkness came was catching the Elder Wand when I- when Voldemort's spell rebound on him!"

He ignored the muffled exclaim of incredulity coming from Malfoy as he waited for Dumbledore to speak.

"Where this is? - It's inside the wand, my boy."

"Inside the wand?"

Dumbledore gestured to over to one of the rather grey haired and sullen looking people a few metres down the circumference of the fire. "Mykew Gregorovitch's theory, and it adds to mine.- Since arriving here, he seems to have come to the conclusion that all who have wielded the wand have come here, or, as we know that this isn't decidedly true from what has been written down throughout history, - it seems we have left something behind, when we were defeated, killed. Or disarmed, in case of young Mr. Malfoy here. Or stolen from, in Mykew's case."

Mykew Gregorovitch, after hearing his name, nodded rapidly to Dumbledore's words, his long and grey hair shielding his eyes from Harry. "You see, Harry. I always thought the idea of Death, cold and endless, waiting for people to fall into its grasp, to be a belief of those too weak-minded to accept the reality of life: that death is part of it and something one should not take flight from."

Dumbledore was interrupted, which he took in stride. "Bah, so you say. Dumbledore! But that all living things must come to an end, is but a human observation. Falls something out of line is it not correctly observed, or some other explaining absurdity is thought out."

  
"Thank you for your opinion, Warlock Deverill, but as I was about to explain to young Harry, people have often sought out rather religious explanations for their lack of knowledge. Gods and Demons, and the concept of Death, whatever form it may take, were all too welcome to explain away the things that were beyond the understanding of the common people."

The man, one of the first at the other end of the tall bonfire nodded slowly. "Well, good then. Oughtn't be all hard to comprehend. Carry on."

Dumbledore smiled at Harry, his eyes glinting with amusement, something that Harry hadn't seen for so long, that he felt tears well up in his eyes. "I have speculated quite often, not daring to discuss the matter openly with anyone that wasn't privy to the knowledge of the fabled wand already;- what if the wand had gained strength from being wielded? What if it was always just strong enough, fast enough, to counter whatever was thrown at its Master, because it had been wielded before, absorbing knowledge and strength from all those Masters before this one." Dumbledore pointed his ringladen index finger at the wand in Harry's hand. "There is no quality comparable to strength, Harry, and I fear you will come realise that. But love, as you know, may surprise even the strongest of us with its fire that may rise to greatness from even the smallest embers. - We lend our life's worth of knowledge to this strength." - Grindelwald nodded quietly to the words, Harry could see it from the corner of his eyes. The flickering light and the heat distortion throwing shadows on the gaunt and pale face. "We have used the wand, and the wand uses us. Quite fitting, if you ask me. Though, I am afraid, many others here would readily disagree."

He looked back to Dumbledore whose eyes lingered on the wand. "So you are not real? You are just something left behind and not the real Albus Dumbledore?" A grimace hushed over the old and wrinkly face before the eyes sought out Harry's own. "I think this to be very real, Harry. But if you ask me if it has to be equally real to you? I don't know. Does it feel real for you? Does the fire carry warmth for you? Does it shield you from the dark and the things you don't know? Because to me it does, and it comforts me to know that there is a source of warmth here. A light in the dark. Does it do the same for you?"

"Sir, Potter is not the brightest torch in the dungeon, - maybe you should speak in shorter sentences."

Harry glared at Malfoy. "Bugger off Malfoy! I'd wanna see if you can think properly after taking Voldemort's Avada Kedavra to the gob!"

"Brain Damage, Potter? You can't afford that with the little brain you had to begin with!"

Grindelwald leaned forward quite suddenly, an eager look on his face. "You survived it?"

Dumbledore nodded as he said, "Twice, Gellert. Young Harry has taken the first at the young age of a little more than a year, surviving it by being shielded through his mother's love. And the second time he survived because he was the unwilling host to a Horcrux."

A collective shudder went through the group of people sat around the fire, all except Malfoy and a rather tall man, not quite unlike the size of Hagrid. Breaths were sucked in loudly. "Horcrux?"

"A torn and asundered part of a soul!" Someone explained from further down the row, and immediately he was shushed.

"It is a vile thing to do," said Dumbledore, shaking his head. "Tom had been long and far gone when he'd turned his wand on Harry." He looked rather sad saying that.

"Seven, he'd done and created seven of them," Harry said, clutching his arms tighter to his body. "And no Sir, I don't feel warm at all. It's beginning to feel freezing to me."

A loud bursting sound made Harry flinch. His hand tight around the Elder Wand.

"Time for another one, eh?" A female voice asked in defeated tones. The tall man nodded quietly, face oddly twisted in a disturbingly happy grin.

"That's Sarolf," Malfoy said, leaning closer to Harry. "He's not all that right in the head, much like you, Potter."

"What the boy means," Grindelwald said, leaning back to the stone he used for comfort, "is that Sarolf's unable to speak." His hand rose, index finger tapping on his head. "Cognitively something's missing." His head turned towards Harry, blue and black boring into green.

"We don't know much about him," Dumbledore added, and shrugged. "But we know that whenever he stokes the fire, that some will feel a bit weaker for some time."

"Well, why don't you leave then?" asked Harry, looking lost.

A hushed wave of whispers broke through the group before it subsided again. The stares returned.

"We would if we could, lad."

"Aye. Ye've been outside. Have ye already forgotten what's outside?"

Harry shook his head. "There's nothing but darkness. Even Lumos didn't do much." He looked up for a few seconds before adding, "The ground was pretty uneven, aside of the darkness."

"Only Sarolf seems at the freedom to move away from the fire without risking it shutting down. So he collects all that arrive here, outside the entrance."

"All eventually arrive here. They all do," another voice said.

"Yes, they do." Another voice added. "But that darkness," another voice said, repulsion seeping into its tone as it spoke, "it's soul magic, I tell you lot!" Muttering rose up again. "There he goes again!"

"Mayhaps there's a grain of truth to it?"

Laughing rose and subsided quickly.

Harry looked a bit lost as he contemplated what his current situation meant for him. His eyes, every so often, looked up and wandered through the group of people sitting around the fire. Some clad in noble robes, others in clothes Harry had only read about in books. And others wore lumpen. He saw their eyes on him, and he could feel them too. Unwillingly his hand tightened around the wand, pressing it closer to his body.

For long minutes, or maybe hours, Harry couldn't say, the crackling of the fire and the muted conversations around it were all that filled the darkness with something akin to life. And Harry was stuck in thoughts. And when he finally reached some sort of clarity that wasn't broken by constant questions in his mind, and memories that rose up only to disappear again, he turned to face Dumbledore. "Sir? Do you think I can return home? To Hogwarts?"

The conversations around the fire were suddenly quiet.

"Do you want to return?" Dumbledore peered at him over his spectacles, honest curiosity in his eyes as he spoke. Heads looked up, gazing at Harry expectantly.

The question was quite simple, and Harry didn't need to think about the answer. He nodded. "Yes!" The answer had come as easy as breathing.

Dumbledore beamed at him. "Well then certainly, my boy! You will find a way to return then. I am sure you can do it."

Harry's head turned to stare at the darkness. "But how?"

"Use your sodding head Potter. If you can speak there must be some brain left undamaged!"

Harry was about to lay into Malfoy when Dumbledore spoke up, "While I would not use such a crude choice of words, I do agree with Mr. Malfoy on the sentiment, my boy. We cannot help you with your quest. We shall remain here. But if what you have said is true, then you are still the Master of the wand. Go out and find your way, it is your life, after all."

"Say, Harry Potter.-" Harry looked back from the pitch black blanket that covered the world outside of the small bubble of light the bonfire created. Grindelwald had spoken. "Yes?"

"I am dead, aren't I?"

The mismatched eyes stared at Harry before a hand with thin and bony fingers pointed skyward as if to say there. Harry's hand moved back to where his scar had been, and he was sure he could see Dumbledore observing his every move from the corner of his eye. "Yes, you are," Harry finally said without feeling anything but coldness slowly crawling up his legs. "Voldemort came to Nurmengard and killed you." Grindelwald looked thoughtful for a few long seconds before he gave a jerky nod. "He came for the wand and you told him that he would never own it,- that it would never be his."

Grindelwald laughed up abruptly. "Sounds like I had a good death then!"

Harry shrugged. "As good or bad as any death, I'd reckon. Avada Kedavra is far from painless," he said and rubbed where he still felt the phantom pain of the spell hitting him.

"But I didn't beg," Grindelwald rebuked with gree, and grinned with a glint of madness in his eyes. "Only cowards beg for the release through death!"

..."Some people desire eternal life, Gellert. Tom was such a man. It is a wish many carry with them. But if it were to be fulfilled," Dumbledore said and trailed off, "in reality, man wishes merely to avoid a premature, violent or gruesome death. Everything has its measure, and in the end when we are weary of everything, even of life, a time may come when we desire death. There is nothing frightening about it. The death of a man who has fulfilled himself and lived out his life is a good death as any other."

Grindelwald spat into the fire. "You only say that because you had the luxus of deciding and choosing your own death!" He leaned forward his arms spread, palms showing. "Had I bested you back then, would you have said the same, withering away in the tower of my measure? I don't think you are as noble as your beard suggests you to be, Albus."

Dumbledore's eyes twinkled as he replied, "Leave my beard out of it, would you? It has taken years of grooming to get it to grow properly!" Then he inclined his head, stroking the beard he was so proud of. "But I concede the point, Gellert. I fear if I hadn't touched the Resurrection Stone and subsequently the curse on the ring it was attached to, I'd have never chosen my death in such a manner."

Dumbledore turned to Harry. "Which reminds me. If you have faced Tom, what happened to the Stone?"

Harry scratched his face, dirt and scraped skin itching. "Voldemort was waiting in the Forbidden Forest, Sir. He'd declared a ceasefire, telling people that if I surrendered myself he'd spare the others. And I've seen the memories of Snape, - I knew I'd have to die. -" Harry drew a shuddering breath, his huddled form making itself as small as possible to conserve warmth. "I dropped the Stone after calling my parents and Sirius, and Remus." Harry swallowed hard around the lump in his throat, wet hot tears rolling down his cheeks as he attempted to hide away his face.

"Dropped the Resurrection Stone," Grindelwald groused, his ashy skin tightening with anger.

Dumbledore however nodded in acceptance and understanding, deciding not to comment on it, instead he said, "I fear you must pave your own path from here on out, Harry." He gestured from his sitting position to Draco who had buried his face in his arms, seeking the heat the bonfire offered and then in a broad motion towards the other huddled forms that had creeped around the fire. "We are not allowed to leave. Don't mourn or weep us. - Those that shall remain here, Harry. We have chosen this fate on our own, wittingly or not. Shoulder your own fate and walk tall, that's all there is to life." A sad smile flashed over the so familiar features, and Harry nodded jerkily, swallowing heavily, the lump in his throat making it quite painful.

"You should go," a voice from the other end of the bonfire said with forced calmness.

"Ye oughtn't stay fo' too long. No, no. Better go, alright?."

"Off ye go laddy. Make yer way and go home!" A voice said with harsh tones but not so unkindly.

"Go away Potty, and take your Gryffindor stupidity with you," Malfoy said, voice muffled but there was no heat in it.

"Yes, go lad. We'll be here when you return, in the end." A few voices joined in and spoke their agreement.

Grindelwald stared into the fire when he said, "Go, Harry Potter. Only kings and queens of insanity have a right to take their place at this fire. Come back when you've earned your place. Come back when you are a Master and no more slave. We shall entertain ourselves until then."

Sarolf rose and threw another piece of wood from a neverending stack into the fire.

"Again? Oh alright. Why not." The female voice was resigned.

"You still here? Go boy, just go. Don't look back and take yer esurient stick with you!"

Another tremor of the coldness that seemed to haunt this place was wrecking through Harry's legs when he pulled himself up. He'd come here by foot. He'd leave by foot.

Dumbledore turned back to the bonfire, odd shadows playing through and over the old and wrinkly face. "Goodbye, Harry."

"Don't look back, Potter!"

Harry nodded mutely,- the finality of the words feeling oddly discomforting as he turned on the spot. A few steps and he was back in the darkness. He could still hear the crackling of the fire, but the light was long gone. And it was cold, only the wand in his hand giving him some sort of tactile comfort. Whipping it through the prescribed motion, Harry conjured Lumos Maxima, a fist sized orb of light that hovered a few centimeters above the tip of the wand it had came from.

He opened his mouth, but no voice came forth. His shoulders slumped, but he continued walking, his head full of thoughts whereas his eyes just stared ahead, transfixed on the black that surrounded him.

Harry walked and stalked for what felt eternity, the darkness not allowing for any form of measurement. Time meant little when there was nothing to measure it with. He felt like he was treading water while simultaneously being held down by invisible hands. He could not say if he had actually walked a line, in circles or on the spot, and still, Harry thought that he was doing well. He knew he had won against Voldemort, he had seen the body fall, and he had seen people cheer. All was well, wasn't it? He had accepted his death already. He'd be fine, he thought.

And just as the saying went, it is always darkest just before the day dawneth, Harry blinked when his steps lead him over a ground that made sound. A sound he hadn't heard before.

Stopping in his tracks, Harry carefully as not to lose orientation, hunched down and held the wand's light close to the surface. Touching his fingertips to the ground, Harry grinned. He could feel wood! It was wood! No stones, no pitch black evenness! It was real wood! He ran his fingers over it, relishing in the smooth surface, the texture that reminded him of the long tables in the Great Hall at Hogwarts, of the time spent with Ron and Hermione, Fred and George and Neville. Harry swallowed at the reminder, the lump that had been almost gone was firmly back in place.

Groaning slightly as he sat down on the wooden planks, Harry hissed in discomfort when he stretched out his legs. The long day was finally catching up with him. The adrenaline had long since run its course and he felt sluggish and tired, and overall done.

But Harry knew that he couldn't fall asleep. He deep down, inside him, knew that it would mean that he would never wake again. It was some sort of primal fear that let him cling to wakeness, let him stay awake, swaying slightly back and forth as his body was trying to resist the tiredness. Like a plant wilting in the darkness that came with the absence of the sun, Harry knew that he could sooner or later would be too weak to continue. He didn't know how he could continue like this. He didn't know where to go from where he was.

Drawing a deep breath of the warm air, Harry turned his head skyward, to the darkness that was everywhere. Expecting it to be different would be foolish, and yet he hoped to see something that would give him guidance. Stars, light in the distance or maybe some point of fixture. But there was nothing. Just black and dark.

He sighed quietly, and blinked in surprise when a tone had left his mouth. Without being able to help himself, the hand that was holding on to the Elder Wand rose up and touched to the bleeding lip. "I can do it," Harry whispered quietly against the back of his hand, grimacing at the stinging and burning pain it caused.

At least, he thought, that way he knew he still was alive. Pain was good, in this sort of way. It reminded him of the times he had struggled and in the end still had managed to come out atop.

He wheezed a chuckle.

It would be a pitiful end for someone who had survived a war. Dying alone, in the darkness with a piece of wood for comfort.

Then, after a few seconds of breathing shallowly, tumult broke loose, making Harry flinch. And just as if he had been lost in thoughts, blinking himself awake, he was back in the yard, Voldemort's body before him. The cheers and cries of the people around him muted to his ears. The fierce new sun dazzled the windows as they thundered toward him, and the first to reach him were Ron and Hermione, and it was their arms that were wrapped around him, their incomprehensible shouts that deafened him. Then Ginny, Neville, and Luna were there, and then all the Weasleys and Hagrid, and Kingsley and McGonagall and Flitwick and Sprout, and Harry could not hear a word that anyone was shouting, nor tell whose hands were seizing him, pulling him, trying to hug some part of him, hundreds of them pressing in, all of them determined to touch the Boy Who Lived, the reason it was over at last.

But to Harry, having wandered the dark for however long, it was too much. All the people. It was all too much.

Stumbling forward, first slowly and then gaining momentum, Harry ran. He ran and ran, a blurry of colours passing by him. A blurry of people, faces contorted in pain, terror and joy and Harry ran, and ran and ran. For minutes, the burning in his eyes forgotten. He ran. Until his body gave out and he fell, face first into the dirt. And then it was dark again.

The next time Harry woke, it was dark, but he smelled earth and woods and rain. When he rolled to his back, he saw the tall trees, imposingly dark and looming over him, but Harry had burned out all the fear he could feel. He wanted nothing more than to take a long and scaldingly hot shower, then something to drink. Maybe something a bit more strong than butterbeer, and then sleep. Long, long sleep.


End file.
